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CALIFORNIA 

AND 

OTHER  VERSE 


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HOWARD  L.  TERRY 


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CALIFORNIA 

AND  OTHER  VERSE 


BY 

HOWARD  L.  TERRY 

AUTHOR    OF 
A  VOICE  FROM  THE  SILENCE' 
"THE  DREArV.  :  A  DRAMA" 


i^ii 


THE  PALISADES  PRESS 

SANTA  MONICA    CALIFORNIA 

1917 


Copyright  1917  hy  Howard  L.  Terr^ 


So  l\)t  Memory  of 
Blotter  a»6  'SaV^tr 


3G5862 


CONTENTS 


California 1 

Ye  Sons  of  the  East S 

A  Night  on  Mt.  Lowe ^ 

The  Volcano 5 

The  Cyclone 6 

Joaquin  Miller 7 

Joaquin  Miller  as  I  Saw  Him 7 

The  Discovery  of  Gold 12 

Lake   Tahoe , IS 

The  Spirit  of  the  Place lU 

As  I  See  It 15 

The  World's  Ingredients 15 

The  Titanic 16 

The  Deserted  Ships 18 

The  Poet's  Dream 30 

A    Poet 31 

The  Death  of  Chatterton 32 

The  Last  Oak 33 

"Sunset"    35 

My  Breakfast 37 

Elm  Spring 38 

The  Marsh  Mill  Waterfall 39 


Page 

^'Paradise  Regained" ^2 

A  Song  of  Twenty-one 4^3 

Madrigal -4-4 

Constancy J^5 

The  Ballad  of  Jennie  Brovm J^6 

Fires  of  Brushwood A9 

Lincoln    50 

Enlist 51 

Peace  52 


Corrections  and  Revisions. 

Page  2,  lines  5  and  6  : 

And  far  and  wide  this  land  is  free 
With  beauty,  wealth  and  brilliancy  ! 
Page  6  : 

"Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  his  voice  in  wind.' 
Page  7,  Line  9  of  verse  :  symbol— symbolic. 
Page  13,  last  line  of  Lake  Tahoe  : 

These  depths  be  my  grave  on  my  spirit's  release. 
Page  17,  second  line  from  bottom  of  page  : 

worketh— workest. 
Page  19,  last  stanza,  last  line  ;  water— waters 
Pags  22,  first  line,  third  stanza  :  are— art. 
Page  43,  second  line  :  Oh  ! — oh  ! 
Page  46,  second  line  : 

When  my  dad  was  a  boy  like  me. 
Page  47,  last  line  of  fifth  stanza  ;  maiden — maid. 
Page  47,  first  line  of  sixth  stanza  :    buy— get, 
Page  48,  first  line,  second  stanza:  So- and- So— So-and-so. 
Page  49,  second  line,  sixth  couplet : 

Bright  fires  of  brushwood  burning  in  the  gray. 


JICKNOWLEDGEMEN'U 

The  fine  photograph  of  the  Yosemite  from 
which  our  plate  was  made  was  furnished  by 
the  Southern  Pacific  railroad. 

'^Joaquin  Miller  As  I  Saw  Him'*  was  pub- 
lished in  Out  West. 

*The  Volcano''  and  'The  Spirit  Of  The 
Place"  first  appeared  in  The  Hesperian. 

Qranite  State  Magazine  published  ''The  Last 
Oak'' in  a  review;  and  'Teace"  (first  version) 
was  in  The  Living  Church. 


Wb  print  to  please. 


SOCIETY  AND  OFFICE 


^^ik     Ji%^.4^ 


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CALIFORNIA 

THE  sensuous  clime  in  glory  glows, 

Like  magic  swells  the  harvest  here, 
O'er  lands  once  dead  where  Genius  sows 

The  seeds  of  progress  and  of  cheer ; 
And  midst  the  palm,  and  midst  the  pine. 
From  mountain  peak  to  laving  brine, 
The  sun  that  never  fails  to  shine 
Has  made  a  living  spot  divine. 
Or  be  it  day,  or  be  it  night. 
By  dashing  wave,  on  rocky  height. 
Midst  poppy  fields,  on  desert  sand, 
My  heart  is  thine,  O  lovely  land! 

Chorus 
Dream  of  the  hardy  pioneer. 
Land  of  the  famed  Yosemite, 
Clime  to  a  thankful  people  dear, 
California!  'tis  of  thee. 


The  mist  tbat  lowers  with  dawn  and  dark 

Is  but  the  veil  of  beauty's  form : 
The  mountains  rising  bold  and  stark, 

The  commerce-laden  ocean's  charm  ; 
And  far  and  wide  a  world  there  be 
Of  beauty,  wealth  and  brilliancy! 
And  still,  to  crown  this  paradise. 
How  proud,  how  fair  her  cities  rise ! 
And  copious  streams  about  them  flow 
Through  fertile  lands  that  wait  the  plow, 
Where  bountiful  nature  yields  her  best. 
Where  uian,  if  e'er  he  was,  is  blessed, 
Oh,  El  Dorado  of  the  West! 


YE  SONS  OF  THE  EAST 

YE  sons  of  the  East!  oh,  arise  from  your  dreams, 
A  sign  in  the  heavens  disturbeth  your  rest, 

Steadfast  and  alone  in  its  beauty  it  beams, 
In  silence  it  calls  you — the  star  of  the  West ! 

Ye  sons  of  the  East!  do  you  harken  that  tone? 

The  Wasatch,  the  Cascades,  the  Sierras  call; 
Through  far,  mystic  wastes  of  the  desert  lands,  lone, 
The  echo  replies,  to  the  glory  of  all. 

The  surf,  as  it  breaks  on  the  rock  or  the  sand. 

It  voices  you  welcome,  O  sons  of  the  East; 
But  gladder  and  truer  than  all  is  the  hand 

That's  waiting  to  welcome,  to  serve  you  the  feast! 


THE  SEA'S  REPLY 

I  said  to  the  restless  Sea, 

"O  Sea,  do  you  never  tire?" 

A  great  wave  rose  near  me, 

And  then,  unconsciously. 

My  face  turned  high,  and  higher. 


A  NIGHT  ON  MT.  LOWE 

THE  moon  hangs  overhead, 

The  City  lies  below, 

The  mountain  side  is  red 

With  sunset^s  golden  glow; 

The  winding  trail  I  tread, 

The  night  winds  come  and  go. 

The  roseate  heavens  spread 

O'er  yon  far  ocean's  flow; 

The  breaths  of  the  faint  and  first 

Sweet  scent  of  the  darkling  hurst. 

Of  the  pine  and  the  cedar  blow. 

The  day  is  done,  and  night 
Is  gathering  with  its  chill, 
A  ghostly  stillness  quite 
Enthralls  the  mortal  will, 
For  the  soul  has  taken  flight. 
Though  the  heart  is  beating  still ! 

The  depths  about  me  gather 

The  shadows  of  the  night. 

The  peaks  the  cold  mists  lather 

With  chaos,  silver  bright. 

As  the  moon's  beams,  or,  rather 

A  flood  of  heaven's  light, 


Bathes  the  far  heights  and  near 
In  her  ethereal  flight. 

I  retire  to  sleep  and  dream, 
I  retire  to  dream  and  sleep, 
Near  to  God,  as  it  would  seem, 
Near  to  God,  as  I  would  keep, 
With  the  clear  stars  overhead, 
And  the  virgin  world  around. 
Where  but  sweet  thoughts  .ire  bred, 
And  to  all  good  respond! 


THE  VOLCANO 

I  heard  a  mighty  mountain  clear  its  throat, 
I  saw  it  burst  with  lava  and  fierce  flarne, 
I  felt  a  trembling,  and  the  crackling  note, 
And  roar  of  streaming  lava  to  me  came; 

I  saw  the  heavens  darken,  and  the  glare 

Of  wild  flame  come  bursting  through  the  gloom; 

I  turned,  and  saw  a  city  rising  fair — 

A  moment  more — I  saw  the  city's  doom! 


THE  CYCLONE 

"Lol  the  poor  Indian,  whose  untutored  mind 
Sees  God  in  sunrise,  hears  His  voice  in  wind." 

I  am  the  Cyclone, 
Fearful  and  dreaded! 
Fly  I  immeasurably 
Swift  o'er  the  country! 
I  am  God's  warning^ 
When  He  is  angary! 
O'er  village  and  city 
I'm  sent  on  His  errand, 
Dealing  destruction. 
Death  and  wild  carnage 
Midst  a  weak  people 
O'er  whom  I  am  master! 
Oaks  on  the  mountain, 
Lords  of  their  kingdom. 
Sway  and  snap  sharply. 
And  crash  to  the  valley! 
Ships  are  as  feathers 
And  founder  before  me! 
Lake,  stream  and  ocean 
Are  tossed  into  fury. 
Scattering  broadcast 
Spray  to  the  heavens! 
Temples  of  granite, 
Massive  and  lofty, 
Tumble  and  crumble 
As  madly  I  pass  them! 
I  am  the  cyclone 
I  am  God's  warning, 
He  spoke,  and  I  am! 


JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

GRIZZLED  old  poet,  what  a  fate  was  yours! 
You  who  had  proudly  sung  these  western  shores, 
You  who  had  dreamed  and  penned  your  way  to  fame. 
And  had  not  for  your  title  page  a  name! 
Cincinnatus  was  too  long  for  you, 
And  Heine— well,  that  name  would  never  do  ; 
And  London  waiting  for  her  Western  bard- 
Then  Ina  Coolbrith  played  the  saving  card. 
And  called  you  '* Joaquin" — symbol  of  the  West : 
To  cap  the  climax,  "Columbus  *'  did  the  rest. 


JOAQUIN  MILLER  AS  I  SAW  HIM. 

MILLER  IS  DEAD.  In  a  quaint  little  cottage 
high  up  on  the  hills  overlooking  the  Golden  Gate, 
there  has  passed  to  eternity  the  spirit  of  a  very  great 
man — a  man  who  could  interpret  Nature,  who  loved 
God,  and  his  fellowmen,  the  man  whom  Tennyson 
called  the  greatest  poet  America  has  produced. 

In  that  little  cottage,  bending  over  the  massive, 
silvered  brow,  are  the  sorrowing  widow,  and  the 
heart-broken  daughter,  Juanita. 

Miller  is  dead.  The  world  bewails  his  loss,  but  his 
poems  will  live  forever. 

Just  one  year  ago  I  was  privileged  to  meet  Mr. 


8 

Miller,  to  grasp  his  hand  and  to  talk  with  him. 

Getting  off  the  car  in  Fruitvale,  I  started  up  the 
long  ascent  that  leads  to  "The  Hights."  In  half  an 
hour  I  came  to  the  gate  of  the  poet's  home.  I  was 
weak  and  dizzy,  having  been  suffering  with  grip, 
and  paused  a  moment  to  recover  before  knocking  at 
the  door.  My  approach  had  been  heard  by  the  daugh- 
ter, who  met  me  at  the  front  door,  and  motioned  me 
to  the  side  door,  which  opened  to  the  poet's  bed  room. 
I  walked  around  as  directed,  and  on  reaching  the  open 
door,  saw  Mr.  Miller  reclining  against  a  prop  of 
pillows  in  his  bed.  I  shall  never  forget  the  picture 
that  met  my  eyes.  The  rudely  furnished  room,  bare 
floor  strewn  with  trappings  of  outdoor  life,  boots, 
saddles,  an  axe,  quaint  Indian  relics,  shells,  articles 
of  clothing,  etc.,  without  meaning  or  order;  the  great 
wooden  bedstead,  a  mountain  of  blankets,  and  that 
wonderful  face  and  head  rising  majestically  over  all. 
Then  a  gleam  from  the  poet's  wonderfully  clear  and 
brilliant  eyes — the  eyes  of  genius — caught  mine.  I 
took  off  my  glove  and,  walking  up  to  the  bed,  grasped 
his  welcoming,  outstretched  hand — and  held  it.  A 
thrill  swept  my  frame,  the  hand  that  had  been 
grasped  by  Tennyson,  by  Browning,  by  Dickens,  by 
Prince  Napoleon,  the  hand  that  had  penned  "Colum- 
bus" and  "The  Passing  of  Tennyson"  was  now 
clasped  in  mine. 


My  emotion  passed  away.    I  said: 

"I  have  come  to  see  the  man  who  carried  a  laurel 
wreath  from  California  to  England  to  lay  on  the 
grave  of  Byron." 

His  mind  reverted  to  those  early  days.  He  gave  a 
quick  nod,  and  said:  "Byron  made  Italy;  Byron 
said,  'The  mountains  look  on  Marathon,  and  Mara- 
thon looks  on  the  sea/  " 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "Nature  is  always  the  same;  but 
man  and  nations  change.  I  am  sorry  that  you  are 
ill,"  and  turning  to  Juanita,  "Yours  is  a  work  of 
love." 

Juanita  nodded  "Yes."  I  was  told  to  be  seated, 
and  a  moment  later  the  daughter  brought  me  a  glass 
of  warm  lemonade,  and  quickly  followed  it  with  a 
tray  containing  coffee  and  cakes.  How  thoughtful 
and  hospitable.  It  was  still  early,  and  this  was  really 
a  breakfast.  The  refreshments  made  me  feel  better, 
and  we  talked  about  many  things.  Being  deaf,  I 
could  not  hear  a  word,  but  Mrs.  Miller  wrote  on 
paper  all  the  poet  said,  and  after  a  few  minutes, 
seeing  that  my  presence  was  undoubtedly  tiring  him, 
I  rose  to  go.  Mr.  Miller  said  several  kind  things  to 
me,  encouraged  me  in  my  literary  work,  and  ex- 
pressed his  appreciation  of  my  call.  Again  grasp- 
ing his  hand,  I  bid  him  farewell,  and  Mrs.  Miller 
took  me  to  see  the  grounds  and  the  cottages. 


10 

When  Joaquin  Miller  took  possession  of  the  ranch, 
it  was  bare  of  trees.  Now  there  is  a  great  forest  of 
nearly  80,000  trees,  all  set  out  by  the  poet  and  his 
visiting  friends. 

One  of  the  cottages  was  the  store-house  of  his 
Alaskan  outfit,  his  tent  and  other  trappings  used  on 
his  trip  alone  across  the  silent  wastes  of  the  North. 
This  cottage  was  formerly  occupied  by  his  mother. 
I  plucked  some  roses  that  grew  at  the  door,  and  these 
I  still  have.  We  next  went  to  the  cottage  where  the 
poet  penned  so  much  of  his  work.  Mrs.  Miller  said 
that  Archbishop  Trench,  the  great  authority  on 
words,  asked  Miller  where  he  got  his  words.  She 
felt  there  was  but  one  answer,  viz.,  "Genius." 

So  passed  the  hour — an  hour  that  I  am  to  carry  in 
my  mind  to  the  end  of  my  days,  an  hour  that  I  thank 
God  for  giving. 

On  arriving  home  in  Santa  Monica,  I  wrote  to  Mr. 
Miller,  and  this  letter  was  followed  up  by  an  inter- 
esting correspondence.  These  letters,  which  the  poet 
penned,  and  while  suffering  with  the  illness  that 
should  later  cause  his  death,  I  now  have  in  my  safe 
deposit  box. 


11 


12 


THE  DISCOVERY  OF  GOLD. 

IF  thou  couldst  from  a  hilltop  see 

A  bivouac  of  infantry 

Far  spread  upon  the  grassy  plain, 

Where  calm  moonlight  and  silence  reign, 

Recumbent  forms  in  quietude 

Around  the  piles  of  burning  wood, 

And  not  a  sound  of  good  or  fell, 

Except  the  watchword,  "All  is  well," 

That,  like  some  unexpected  sound 

That  starts  the  echoes  far  around, 

And  travels  on  and  on  until 

'Tis  answered  o'er  the  distant  hill ; 

Those  forms  a- weary,  fast  in  dreams, 

While  from  each  stacked  rifle  gleams 

The  flashing  rays  that  dart  around. 

Mocking  the  fires'  dance  on  the  ground. 

Rest  safe  from  danger.     Shouldst  thou  see 

Advancing  host  from  o'er  the  lea. 

And  hear  the  bugle  in  the  camp, 

Behold  the  waking,  hear  the  tramp — 

The  dead  spring  into  life  again, 

And  din  of  battle  on  the  plain, 

Then  thou  wouldst  know  how  sudden,  strange, 

Came  consternation  o'er  that  range 

Of  quiet  woodland,  mount  and  glen. 


13 


Sublime  in  primal  glory  then, 

When  yellow  gold,  washed  from  the  stream. 

First  startled  man  by  its  fair  gleam, 

And  sent  its  message,  world  around, 

**EI  Dorado  has  been  found!'' 


LAKE  TAHOE. 

ON  the  crest  of  thy  waters,  O  Lake  of  the  north, 
I  float  with  the  joy  of  a  spirit  set  free. 
For  the  angels  in  heaven  that  witnessed  thy  birth 
Are  weaning  with  song  all  my  spirit  from  me. 

Oh,  the  rare  light  that  quivers  upon  thy  clear  waves, 
Thy  dark  depths  and  caverns  unf  athomed  by  man, 
And  this  frail  shallop  shell  that  so  lightly  behaves, 
Ah,  this  were  my  world  as  my  youthful  dreams  ran : 

By  those  stern  walls  around  me  my  safety's  secured, 
The  pure  sky  above  me  gives  promise  of  peace  ; 
And  my  boat  is  my  temporal  haven  assured — 
These  depths  be  my  grave  when  my  dream  life  would 
cease. 


Be  a  boy  as  long  as  you  can. 
There* s  ample  time  to  be  a  man. 


14 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  PLACE. 

THE  spirit  of  the  place  is  gone, 
The  scene  a  duller  aspect  wears, 
And  I  am  here,  but  here  alone, 
And  God  knows  what  my  bosom  bears. 

The  spirit  of  the  place  is  gone, 
The  fuller  sense  of  life  is  lost. 
My  cup  was  full  with  her  alone, 
I  drank,  and  misery  is  the  cost. 

No  longer  mine  the  day's  delights. 
My  soul  is  dead  to  music's  swell, 
The  sunset's  glow,  the  starry  nights 
Cast  not  on  me  their  wonted  spell. 

I  gaze  with  aching  heart  afar 
O'er  boundless  waters,  to  the  sky, 
Perhaps  she  dwells  on  yonder  star. 
And  living  still,  will  never  die. 

I  turn,  the  mountain's  somber  wall 
Is  as  the  barrier  I  must  break, 
If  I  would  be  within  her  call— 
Up,  up,  my  soul!  arise,  awake! 


15 


AS  I  SEE  IT. 

TRY  as  I  may  I  cannot  see 

Aught  else  but  immortality  : 

We  were  before  we  touched  this  earth, 

And  will  be  by  another  birth  ; 

For  motion  is  life  and  eternity, 

The  breath  in  you  and  the  breath  in  me, 

The  fiat  of  That  which  cannot  die ; 

Though  fail  the  earth,  the  stars  on  high, 

It  breathes  again  in  the  spirit  free, 

lu  God,  the  Birth  and  Maturity. 


THE  WORLD'S  INGREDIENTS. 

AND  who  will  say  that  one  is  right, 
And  from  another  turn  away  ? 
He  who  made  the  winter  night 
Also  made  the  summer  day. 


16 


THE  TITANIC 

She  might  have  come  to  port  a  happy  bride, 
Bearing  her  freight  of  beauty,  genius,  gold. 
From  lands  afar,  and  in  her  queenly  pride. 
Unscathed  by  tempest  or  the  Artie's  cold. 
Borne  witness  to  the  triumph  of  the  age — 
The  height  of  art  and  skill,  of  mighty  mold; 
She  laughed  to  scorn  the  billows  in  their  rage. 
Majestically  beautiful,  ne'er  told 
A  dreamer  of  great  dreams  a  prophecy  so  bold! 

Two  thousand  souls,  and  not  a  sign  of  fear ; 
Oh,  happy,  happy  hearts  that  westward  sail ! 
Ye  dream  of  loved  ones  till  the  happy  tear 
Of  greeting  springs  too  soon.    Along  the  rail 
Ye  promenade  in  glad  expectancy. 
Low  sinks  the  sun,  and  o'er  the  sea  the  veil, 
Star-decked,  of  night  draws  on.     In  mighty  glee 
On  plows  the  ship  defiant  of  the  gale, 
Through  fog  and  wave  and  ice  she  leaves  a  titan  trail. 

O  Thou,  who  madest  and  rulest  the  universe. 
It  is  not  fit  weak  mortal  ask  Thee  why 
Thou  worketh  blessings  or  the  sapping  curse, 
Enough  to  know  that  man  is  born  to  die. 


17 


Two  thousand  souls,  and  not  a  sign  of  fear; 
The  crash  of  doom — the  wild  alarm — the  cry 
Of  men  gone  mad;  the  end  of  all  that's  dear, 
Ambition,  hope,  love,  home,  as  suddenly 
As  'twere  the  world  had  met  a  planet  circling  nigh. 

The  news  was  flashed,  the  news  that  shocked  the 

world. 
And  peasant,  statesman,  monarch,  men  of  power, 
With  dim  eyes  stood.     The  cold  ocean  curled 
Its  waves  about  the  dead     ....     Slow  passed 

the  hour. 
And  then   she   sank,   midst  breaking   hearts   and 

tears. 
And  brave  farewells  from  men  of  princely  dower, 
And  agony,  and  terror,  such  as  wears. 
Deep  furrors  in  the  heart;  and  all  was  o'er. 
The  sun  rose  on  a  world  appalled  as  ne'er  before. 


18 


THE  DESERTED  SHIPS: 

A  SEA  TALE  FROM  THE  WEST 

Note. — Some  have  said,  "This  is  too  much  like 
*Ancient  Mariner.'  "  Birds  of  evil  omen  are  a  common 
superstition.  The  tale  is  the  outcome  of  a  report 
of  the  work  of  Government  wreckers  off  the  Atlantic 
seaboard.  A  sailing  vessel  had  been  found  under  full 
sail,  in  perfect  order,  yet  not  a  soul  aboard;  the 
question  naturally  arose,  "How  did  it  happen?" 

H.  L.  T. 

A  man  from  the  Middle  West  was  strolling  on  the 
beach,  when  he  came  upon  three  men,  evidently 
sailors.  They  were  telling  tales,  and  the  Western 
man  paused  to  listen.  When  the  story  telling  was 
over,  the  newcomer  was  challenged  to  tell  a  sea  tale, 
and  having  noted  the  superstition  of  the  men,  enter- 
tained them  thus: 

"And  how  is  this,  my  fellow  men, 
And  how,  my  Sailors  three, 
That  I  possess  such  yarn  as  this 
Who  never  sailed  the  sea? 

"Oh,  ho!  you  wink  your  weather  eye, 
I  know  its  meaning  well; 
So  you  believe  that  I  deceive, 
No  tale  of  sea  can  tell? 


19 

"Then  sit  ye  down,  my  Sailors  three, 
And  hearken  to  my  tale, 
How  night  and  day  for  leagues  away, 
Unmanned  two  ships  did  sail." 

He  was  a  rugged  Western  man 

Who  came  to  know  the  sea. 
With  eager  face  he  took  his  place 

Beside  his  comrades  three. 

It  was  a  stretch  of  ocean  beach, 

The  waves  did  roar  and  roll, 
He  fed  his  eye  on  breakers  nigh. 

That  stirred  him  to  the  soul. 

"Oh,  ho!"  he  cried,  "I  like  the  sea, 
I  like  the  waves  and  roar. 
Now  sit  ye  'round,  your  nerves  I'll  sound 
With  tale  ne'er  told  before." 

And  they  did  sit  as  he  did  say 

Upon  the  sands  and  shale. 
And  there  he  stood  while  iced  their  blood 

That  made  their  cheeks  to  pale. 

"And  how  came  I  by  this?  you  say, 
A  man  of  th'  West  countree. 
Though  rough  my  looks,  I'm  schooled  in  books 
In  tales  and  historic. 

"I  got  it  from  my  great-grandad — 
He  was  a  fearless  soul — 
He  dared  be  free — he  sailed  the  sea 
Where'er  its  water  roll. 


20 

"It  was  the  good  ship  Flying-Fishy 
With  three  masts  pointing  high, 
As  spick-and-span  as  any  man 
E'er  sailed  beneath  the  sky. 

"And  ev*ry  man  aboard  that  ship 
Had  vowed  that  he  would  try 
To  find  that  land  upon  whose  strand 
Man  blest  might  live  and  die. 

"Ah,  simple  minds — ah,  foolish  men, 
That  dreamed  to  happy  be, 
All  free  from  care  in  th'  enchanted  air 
Of  island  in  the  sea; 

"Where  suns  are  warm  and  moons  are  mild. 
And  gentle  breezes  blow. 
Where  men  no  more  desire  their  shore — 
Where  lotus-flowers  grow; 

"Utopian  land — a  fabled  isle. 
Near  famed  Aegean  Sea, 
Where  ills  of  Eld  have  been  withheld, 
And  all  earth's  misery. 

"Ah,  well-a-day,  and  well-a-day, 
Those  foolish,  luckless  men! 
Bright  was  the  day  they  sailed  away, 
But  ne'er  to  land  again ! 

"They  saw  the  golden  sun  go  down 
Where  long  had  dwelt  their  sires; 
They  said  farewell — they  hailed  the  swell 
Of  sea  that  never  tires; 


21 


"They  saw  the  golden  sun  come  up, 
The  white-caps  rolling  far; 
Theirs  was  rejoice  with  ringing  voice, 
From  deck  and  mast  and  spar. 

"Far  to  the  south  the  vessel  sailed, 
And  reached  the  Afric  shore, 
It  passed  the  strait — the  Mid-Sea  gate — 
They  hailed  the  dusky  Moor; 

"By  east  and  south — Calypso^s  isle, 
Beyond  the  shores  of  Crete, 
Fair  blew  the  wind — far,  far  behind, 
The  sky  and  islands  meet; 

"But  on  the  twentieth  day  they  spied, 
A  speck  against  the  sky, 
It  nearer  drew,  it  larger  grew — 
They  watched  with  fearful  eye. 

"And  when  that  thing  had  neared  the  ship. 
Ah,  they  were  filled  with  fear, 
Right  well  the  crew  its  meaning  knew, 
Some  dreadful  doom  was  near! 

"It  was  a  noxious  cormorant, 
A  foetid,  carrion  thing. 
It  sought  a  mast* — such  sign  did  blast 
Those  men^s  fond  reckoning. 

*  *0h,  woe  is  me!'*  the  captain  cried — 
He  swore  a  fearful  oath — 
He  drew  his  gun  and  fired  upon 
That  bird  which  he  did  loathe. 


22 

"No  sound  it  made,  nor  moved  at  all— 
'Twas  silent  as  a  trap! 
To  scare  the  thing  each  man  did  fling 
On  high  his  sailor  cap. 

"  *Thou  art  a  solitary  bird, 
I  know  it  by  thy  beak — 
No  bird  could  be  thy  companie, 
E'en  I  abhor  thy  shriek; 

"  *Thou  are  a  harbinger  of  woe, 
A  sign  all  sailors  dread, 
I  will  not  rest,  thou  horrid  pest, 
Until  I  see  thee  dead! 

The  captain's  anger  scarce  had  burst. 

When  loud  the  bird  did  cry; 
The  fearful  crew  together  drew — 

*  What's  that  'neath  yonder  sky?' 

"Far  o'er  the  sea  they  saw  a  sail, 
Full  ev'ry  canvas  drew; 
They  raised  the  glass — alas!  alas! 
That  ship  the  blacJc  flag  flew! 

"*Aloft!  aloft!— set  ev'ry  sail!' 
The  captain's  voice  rang  loud; 
And  louder  rang — the  sailors  sprang. 
And  manned  each  mast  and  shroud. 

"Tops — top-gallants — main  and  jib. 
Were  spread  as  ne'er  before; 
She  swung — she  dipped — she  leaped — she  slipped- 
Like  thing  possessed  she  tore! 


23 

"But  still  was  perched  above  the  ship 
Which  flew  before  the  wind, 
That  wicked  bird — it  never  stirrM — 
The  sailors  said  it  grinned! 

"Ah,  day  on  day  and  night  on  night, 
The  pirates  chased  that  bark! 
Now  near,  now  far,  *neath  sun  and  star — 
By  daylight  and  by  dark. 

"The  hopes  of  th'  ones  they  were  high, 
The  others'  ire  was,  too. 
Who  cursed  and  railed  as  on  they  sailed, 
But  close  they  never  drew. 

"Still  perched  that  evil  cormorant. 
The  efforts  of  the  crew 
To  drive  away  that  bird,  or  slay, 
Were  vain,  and  foolish,  too. 

"They  tried  by  ev'ry  means,  but  failed. 
That  evil  bird  to  slay. 
When  near  the  thing  it  took  to  wing — 
It  knew  the  game  to  play. 

"Hard  strained  the  ship  as  winds  increased, 
But  high  she  bore  and  well. 
Until — a  crash! — quick  as  a  flash. 
The  straining  main-mast  fell ! 

"The  m_ast  the  bird  had  perched  upon — 
That  bird  demoniac — 
Was  snapped,  and  fell — th*  exultant  yell 
Of  th*  pirates  wafted  back! 


24 


"With  fearful  shriek  that  frightened  bird, 
Like  ghost  in  shadows  dressed, 
Shot  through  the  air  toward  th*  pirate  there, 
Who  near  and  nearer  pressed. 

**Can  aught  escape  that  crippled  be 
When  pressed  full  hard  and  fast? 
The  hour  was  come — the  men  were  dumb — 
The  battle  on  at  last! 

"The  pirates  overhauled  that  ship, 
But  dearly  bought  the  day — 
The  deck  ran  red  from  slaughtered  dead 
Where  man  and  pirate  lay. 

"They  spared  not  one,  those  pirates  grim, 
With  thirst  for  blood  and  gore, 
They  cut  and  slashed — the  blood  it  splashed, 
They  threw  the  wounded  o^er! 

"My  men,  was  there  ever  a  scene 
Like  this,  unjustified? 
The  pirate  crew  infuriate  gre\^ 
As  swift  the  knife  was  plied; 

"And  yell  on  yell,  and  oath  on  oath 
^Mid  clash  of  steel  arose; 
And  flash  of  arms  of  men  in  swarms, 
And  shrieks,  and  groans,  and  blows! 

"The  deed  was  done.    The  night  drew  on — 
The  waves  received  the  slain; 
It  was  not  good,  this  deck  of  blood, 
They  sought  their  ship  again." 


25 

The  Western  man  here  paused  for  breath — 
**Go  on!"  his  comrades  cried, 
"We  sit  to  hear  with  eager  ear." 
"Then  list,"  the  man  replied. 

"  *One  crowded  hour  of  .glorious  life,' 
YouVe  heard  the  line,  my  men. 
That  murd'rous  crew  now  sought  to  do 
One  meaning  of  it  then ! 

"They  lashed  their  prize  beside  their  ship, 
Exultant  in  their  task, 
Then  back  they  sprang  and  loud  they  sang. 
Spread  round  about  a  cask: 

THE  pirates'  song 

'*Fill  high  the  glass — the  fight  is  won! 
We  sing,  who  never  died. 
Their  flesh  and  blood  is  fishes*  food, 
We  are  the  ocean's  pride! 

"Let  others  toil  for  what  they  get, 
We  win  by  right  of  force! 
Our  home,  our  grave,  the  ocean  wave, 
Our  path,  the  trackless  course; 

"We  came  not  of  our  oivn  desire, 
Why  should  we  toil  to  live? 
By  others'  blood  we  gain  our  food. 
What  though  at  times  we  give! 

"Let  others  mark  by  deed  or  line 
The  boundary  of  their  home. 
Ours  is  the  free  and  boundless  sea, 
Our  roof,  the  azure  dome! 


26 

**Fill  high  the  glass — the  fight  is  won! 
We  sing,  who  never  died: 
Their  flesh  and  blood  is  fishes'  foody 
We  are  the  ocean's  pride! 

"They  sang — they  drank — the  orgy  grew, 
Till  they  could  stand  no  more — 
A  frightful  wreck,  each  stretched  the  deck. 
The  rum  was  running  o'er! 

"Oh,  ghastly  scene!  ah,  horrid  scene! 
As,  one  by  one  they  rose; 
They  cursed — they  raved — each  face  was  grav'd 
With  terror     .     .     .     What  are  those? 

"About  the  deck  a  host  appeared — 
The  spirits  of  the  dead ! 
With  weird    shout  they  rushed  about. 
It  was  an  hour  of  dread. 

"The  frenzied  men  were  chased  about 
Like  fishes  scared  by  shark: 
They  raved,  they  yelled,  by  ghosts  impelled. 
Upon  that  haunted  bark. 

"It  was  a  Babel  on  the  deep. 

Where  minds,  not  tongues,  were  changed; 
The  ocean-swell  the  waves  of  Hell 
That  all  around  them  ranged ! 

"There  were  two  brothers  in  that  crew. 
Together  always  found. 
Their  minds  were  one  as  life  went  on. 

Held  by  a  common  bond.  ;    \ 


27 


"Of  these,  one  fled  with  awful  shriek 
Above,  about,  below, 
He  seemed  to  see  a  spirit  free 
Close  in  to  deal  a  blow. 

**In  vain  he  climbed,  he  dropped,  he  ran — 
Close  on  his  heels  it  flew. 
With  terror  crazed,  his  cutlass  raised 
And  stabbed  it  through  and  through! 

*'Alas!  alas!  what  had  he  done? 
There  at  his  trembling  feet. 
With  bleeding  side  his  brother  died, 
He  sank  with  moaning  meet. 
s 
^'Relentless  spirit!  heaven-sent. 
They  drove  them,  one  by  one, 
To  walk  the  plank — they  yelled,  they  sank 
For  sharks  to  feed  upon : 

"Splash — splash — splash ! 
As  one  by  one  they  fell; 
The  hungry  shark  arose  in  th'  dark. 
And  bore  them  through  the  swell; 

"Splash — splash — splash ! 
As  o'er  the  vessePs  side 
The  yells  of  th'  men  were  terrible,  when 
They  plunged  below  and  died; 

"  S  plash — splash — splash ! 
Was  e'er  a  night  so  grim? 
'Midst  wild  alarm  the  sharks  did  swarm. 
And  crunched  them,  trunk  and  limb. 


28 

"Splash — splash — splash ! 
The  spirit  of  Justice  bore 
Above  that  ship  with  its  rise  and  dip, 
Till  ev'ry  man  was  o'er! 

"And  then  a  deathly  silence  fell, 
Save  waters  lapping  nigh, 
Like  that  which  falls  in  cavern  halls 
When  lost  men  cease  to  cry. 

"And  they,  the  ghosts  of  them  that  died- 
The  men  the  pirates  slew — 
The  task  well  done,  like  setting  sun 
To  another  world  withdrew. 

"Then  o*er  the  sea  the  moon  arose, 
And  grac'd  that  place  of  strife. 
But  all  were  gone — the  ships,  alone. 
Gave  not  a  sign  of  life. 

"Oh,  was  ever  a  scene  so  fair, 
So  silent,  beautiful. 
Where  just  before  was  death  and  gore 
And  Justice  dutiful? 

"Oh,  was  ever  a  scene  so  fair. 
On  lone  and  silent  sea? 
The  moon  shone  red,  the  vessels  sped 
In  solemn  majesty. 

"And  I  am  told  that  to  this  day 
Their  hulks  are  met  at  sea. 
Lashed  side  by  side  they  drift  and  ride- 
Those  hulks  a  moral  be: 


29 


THE  MORAL 


^'Eternal  law  of  righteousness, 

God  worketh  out  His  will: 
No  land  of  bliss  on  earth  there  is — 
Death  follows  those  that  kilV^ 

He  was  a  rugged  Western  man 
Who  came  to  know  the  sea, 

With  solemn  face  he  left  his  place, 
"Farewell,  my  comrades  three." 


'•During  the  composition  of  this  poem,  to  verify 
myself,  I  looked  up  the  habits  of  the  cormorant,  and 
by  strange  coincidence,  came  to  this:  "Its  voice  is 
hoarse  and  croaking,  and  all  its  qualities  obscene. 
No  wonder,  then,  Milton  should  make  Satan  imper- 
sonate this  bird  .  .  .  and  sit,  devising  death,  on 
the  Tree  of  Life.  Aristotle  expressly  says  the  cor- 
morant is  the  only  sea-fowl  that  sits  on  trees." 


30 


THE  POET'S  DREAM. 

TLL  marry  my  muse  some  happy  day, 

A  muse  most  beautiful,  jubilant,  gay. 

We'll  live  in  a  castle  up  so  high 

The  lowest  portals  look  over  the  sky  ; 

ril  have  my  paper  and  pen  and  ink, 

And  sit  all  day  in  my  chair  and  think  ; 

I'll  spatter  the  ink  o'er  many  a  clime. 

And  bring  it  back  in  the  form  of  rhyme  ; 

I'll  sing  with  the  muses  and  dine  with  the  gods, 

And  measure  my  verses  in  poles  and  rods! 

I'll  company  keep  with  the  aerials  free, 

And  I  will  love  them  until  they  love  me! 

I'll  kiss  their  cheeks  and  smooth  their  hair 

And  dance  with  them  on  their  plain  of  air. 

And  quaff  a  cup  of  nectar  cold 

As  they  did  in  Olympian  days  of  old  ; 

And  when  with  rhyme  there  is  nothing  to  do 

I'll  send  a  loving  epistle  to  you. 

And  cancel  its  stamp  with  a  kiss  or  two! 

Oh!  a  poet  ne'er  knowing  a  tear  or  sigh 

Will  I  be  in  my  castle,  up  in  the  sky. 

The  people  with  glasses  on  earth  below 

Will  climb  a  high  mountain  to  look  at  me,  oh! 

And  I'll  toss  them  bunches  of  roses  sweet, 

And  sugared  cakes  the  muses  eat. 

My  food,  served  up  in  a  crystal  dish. 


31 


Choicer  by  far  than  a  god  would  wish  : 

Ambrosia,  nectar  and  roses'  dew, 

And  a  dash  of  wine  old  Bacchus  drew 

From  an  antideluvian  keg! 

Safe  in  my  castle,  up  in  the  sky, 

Merrily  living  as  time  goes  by, 

ril  pass  my  days  and  pen  my  dreams 

Where  the  moon  and  the  stars  flirt  with  their 

beams, 
And  there  Fll  reap,  and  there  Til  sow. 
Nor  taste  the  sorrows  of  earth  below! 


A  POET. 

A  poet  is  a  thing  that  starves  to  death! 
The  while  he  sings  immortal  songs  to  cheer 
A  dying  cause  to  victory— the  wreath, 
Or  laurel  crown's  awarded  at  the  bier; 
The  rhymer  is  the  aper  of  the  bard. 
He  gets  the  cash  from  penny  magazines. 
And  wears  good  clothes  and  dines  him  like  a  lord, 
The  while  the  poet  counts  his  navy  beans! 
He  dies  and  is  forgotten  in  a  year  : 
Ah,  fame's  a  tempting  thing,  but  food  just  now  is 
dear! 


32 


THE  DEATH  OF  CHATTERTON. 

AND  he  is  dead,  the  child  whom  Genius  crowned, 
And  left  to  Poverty's  remorseless  will. 
Here,  in  this  shabby  room,  the  corpse  was  found, 
The  poison  phial  did  here  its  mission  fill; 
The  priceless  manuscripts  his  mind  produced 
In  shreds  about  him  lay,  their  worth  unknown 
To  a  cold  world,  whose  apathy  induced 
The  fatal  deed.     Too  early  he  had  grown 
Above  the  world's  mentality,  and  chose 
The  unknown  state,  by  desperation  driven. 
The  tragic  scene  before  my  vision  grows  : 
Neglected  worth  to  self-destruction  given! 
Peace,  peace!  another  star  bejewels  the  heaven! 


33 


THE  LAST  OAK 

Strike  me  not,  O  sturdy  woodsman,  while  as  yet  I  am 

not  dead, 
Centuries  have  rolled  beneath  me  since  I  raised  o'er 

earth  my  head, 
And   I   stand,  a  lonely  monarch — for  my   race  has 

passed  away — 
Looking  at  the  stars  at  even,  and  the  busy  world  by 

day. 
I  have  seen  my  comrades  falling,  all  around  me,  one 

by  one. 
So  I  ask  you  leave  me  standing  till  my  lease  of  life  is 

run, 
Then,  when  all  my  leaves  have  fallen,  and  my  limbs 

are  hanging  low, 
And   I   feel  no  more  the  raindrop,  or  the  winter's 

sturdy  blow; 
When  my  trunk  is  dry  and  rotting,  and  my  roots 

imbibe  no  more, 
Fell  me,  and,  while  I  am  falling,  listen  to  my  crash 

and  roar! 
With  me  then  shall   go  the  stories  which  the  ages 

caused  to  be, 
From  the  Saxons'  early  coming  through  the  days  of 

Chivalry; 
When  I   saw  the  fields  about  me   soaking  oft  with 

human  blood, 
Conflicts  waged  by  greedy  nations  coming  hence  from 

o'er  the  flood; 
When  I  learned  the  sign  of  battle  in  the  night  so 

clear  and  still 


34 

By  the  glim'ring  campfires  burning  brightly  on  the 

distant  hill; 
When  I  saw  the  knights  in  armor  on  their  chargers 

ride  afield, 
And  the  hills  returned  the  echoes  when  the  brazen 

trumpets  pealed. 
England,  gardenland  of  warfare,  nourished  with  the 

nation^s  blood! 
All  thy  conflicts  I  have  witnessed  through  my  days 

of  hardihood. 
Nightly  would  the  Dryads  gather  round  my  trunk  so 

huge  and  strong, 
Like  the  Druids  round  their  altar,  told  in  story  and 

in  song. 

History's  pages,  slowly  turning,  gave  me  wonder  day 
by  day. 

Age  surpassing  age  I  witnessed,  superstition  giving 
way. 

Ceased  to  sound  the  shrilly  trumpet,  ceased  to  ride 
the  gallant  knight — 

Gone  those  days  of  mighty  conquest — gone  the  bur- 
nished armor  bright! 

Then  I  saw  the  cities  round  me  raise  their  spires  high 
in  air, 

And  I  often  said  within  me,  "Slowly  grows  the  world 
more  fair." 

But,  alas!  while  all  was  gaining,  I  was  losing,  day 
by  day, 

From  the  surging,  restless  progress  slow  my  com- 
rades passed  away. 

Where  are  they?  I  cry,  I  shudder;  you  have  robbed 
me,  let  me  be, 


35 

Use  your  axe  upon  another — strike  not  such  an  aged 

tree! 
I  will  hurl  my  limbs  upon  you,  crush  your  dwelling 

with  my  breath, 
In  your  dreams  I'll  fall  upon  you,  mock  your  agonies 

of  death! 
If  again  you  choose  to  strike  me  with  your  tempered 

blade  of  steel. 
So  again  I  tell  you,  leave  me,  ere  my  warning  words 

are  real! 
Ah,  he  hears  me,  every  moment,  like  the  years  his 

form  recedes, 
While  my  soul  on  happier  ages  of  a  glorious  future 

feeds ! 


'SUNSET'^ 


I  love  my  home,  my  cheery  hearth. 
And  all  that's  true  and  good  on  earth, 
And  all  that  warms  and  all  that  cheers, 
And  all  that  drives  away  our  fears, 
And  her  who  doth  abide  with  me, 
And  these  fair  children  on  my  knee, 
And  Him  who  blesses  this  dear  home, 
And  guides  my  steps  where'er  I  roam. 


36 

0  Home,  0  sweet  composure! 

When  from  the  world's  exposure, 

Into  thy  welcoming  rooms  I  go, 

And  feel  the  fire's  bright,  warming  glow, 

And  greet  the  loved  ones  waiting  near, 

What  bliss  on  earth  is  half  so  dear? 

We  often  longed  for  other  joys. 

When  these  would  seem  to  tame, 

And  sought  the  scenes  where  gold  decoys, 

And  makes  or  wrecks  a  name. 

And  passed  the  days  in  pleasure  there 

That  mocked  the  fleeting  hours. 

Until  this  spot  would  seem  as  bare 

As  woods  when  winter  lowers; 

But  oh!  the  bliss  on  coming  back, 

And  oh !  the  comfort  here. 

And  oh !  the  music  of  the  crack 

Of  greenwood  burning  near ! 

Tell  him  who  will,  tell  him  who  may, 

Of  joys  both  far  and  near. 

But  none  will  ever  come  my  way. 

However  far  and  wide  I  stray. 

To  fill  my  soul  so  full  of  cheer. 

To  nestle  to  my  heart  so  dear, 

As  this  sweet  home  IVe  builded  here. 


37 


MY  BREAKFAST 

Here's  to  a  dish  of  porridge, 

Of  grain  from  the  Scottish  reed, 

Served  steaming  hot  with  cream  that's  got 

From  cows  of  the  Jersey  breed; 

Here's  to  a  dish  of  porridge, 
Served  when  the  frosted  panes 
Obscure  the  view  of  a  scene  that's  new, 
When  great  snows  hide  the  plains. 

Here's  to  buttered,  yellow  bread, 
Of  grain  from  my  good  barn, 
The  grain  of  the  field  of  golden  yield — 
The  golden  field  of  corn. 

Here's  to  a  cup  of  coffee. 
Of  Mocha  and  Java  blend. 
Whose  odor  sweet  and  flavor  meet 
A  fine  contentment  lend. 

Here's  to  a  wife  before  me, 

Whose  skill  has  put  it  through. 

To  beauty  and  strength  and  days  of  length. 

And  satisfaction  true. 


38 


ELM  SPRING 

Below  our  farm  a  mile  or  so 
The  Elm  Spring's  waters  rise  and  flow; 
By  spreading  elm  and  towering  spruce 
It  turns  its  crystal  waters  loose. 

Around  about  it  cresses  grow, 
Above,  the  wooded  violets  blow. 
The  cowslips  in  the  grasses  stray, 
And  ever  the  cooling  waters  play. 

The  rocks  of  old  about  it  stand. 

So  rudely  carved  by  the  storm  god's  hand; 

And  on  their  dripping  side  so  cold 

The  moss  and  the  lichen  have  taken  hold. 

'Tis  there  the  cows  from  pastures  near 
Come  to  drink  of  the  waters  clear, 
And  many  a  lover  of  solitude 
Has  cheered  his  soul  in  the  shady  wood. 

And  ever  murm'ring  waters  flow, 
And  ever  happy  lovers  go. 
And  ever,  ever  song  birds  sing 
To  happy  hearts  at  Elm  Spring. 


39 


THE  MARSH  MILL  WATERFALL 

A  Child's  Song 


My  father  has  a  happy  world  with  a  great  fence 

around, 
And  there  are  many  lovely  things  about  my  father's 

ground : 
I   love  the   flower  garden   which  my   mother  tends 

with  care, 
The   roses   and  the  hyacinths   and  lillies   pure   and 

fair; 
I  love  to  see  the  plowman  in  the  springtime  plow 

the  field,  / 

I  love  to  roam  the  meadows  where  the  soft  grasses 

yield ; 
I  love  my  gentle  little  cow  with  hair  so  sleek  and 

brown, 
I  milk  her  in  the  morning,  and  when  the  sun  goes 

down; 
I  love  the  funny  little  pigs  that  snort  and  grunt  all 

day, 
I  laugh  to  see  their  infant  fights — I  laugh  to  see  them 

play. 
The  barns  are  father's  castles,  oh!   many  a  rainy 

day 
Have  Jane  and  I  spent  romping  and  a-tumbling  in 

the  hay! 
And   how   I   love  to   climb   the   hills   and   hear   the 

sweet  birds  call. 


40 

Or  listen  to  the  music  of  the  Marsh  Mill  waterfall: 
The  wheel  goes  round,  and  round,  and  round,  for 

many  a  weary  hour, 
The    farmers*    wheat    is    grinding,    and    the    miller 

makes  his  flour. 
A    spring    of    crystal    water    flows    that   feeds    the 

rushing  stream. 
Down  yonder  where  the  valley  slopes  and  sunbeams 

rarely  gleam: 
The  hills  are  high  around  the  spring,  and  dense  the 

forests  be — 
Oh !  never  have  I  found  a  spot  more  beautiful  to  me ! 
The  miller  wears  a  funny  cap  and  apron,  spotless 

white. 
He's  busy,  busy  all  the  day  and  happy  every  night. 
He  used  to  make  us  little  bags  and  fill  them  full  of 

meal, 
And  write  our  names  upon  them  when  we  came  to 

see  the  wheel. 
Oh!  round,  and  round,  and  round  it  goes  for  many 

a  weary  hour, 
The   farmer's   wheat   is    grinding    and    the    miller 

makes  his  flour. 
The  miller  loves  the  waterfall  that  makes  his  wheel 

go  round, 
And  poet-like  he  understands  the  meaning  of  each 

sound. 
He   told   me,    every   moment,    every   moment    every 

day. 
The  waters  in  their  falling  sing  to  him  this  little 

lay: 
"T  serve  thee,  I  serve  thee!  I  serve  with  all  my  he-^irt, 
With  all  my  strength  and  days  of  length,  and  all  my 

natural  art: 


41 

"A   hundred   springs   my  being   is,   their   births   in 

mountains  are, 
And  there  I  rear  my  waters  clear  to  travel   swift 

and  far; 
"I  have  no  time  to  tarry,  sir,  I  have  no  time  for  play, 
My  labors  are  my  neighbors' — I   serve  them  night 

and  day; 
"A  thousand  head  of  sheep  and  kine,  as  many  horses, 

too, 
Depend  on  me,  my  waters  free,  as  grass  does  on  the 

dew. 
"I   turn   for  thee,   O   Miller,  thy   ponderous   wooden 

wheel, 
With  all  my  strength  and  days  of  length  my  flowing 

grinds  the  meal. 
"I  feed  the  tender  little  sprouts  that  nestle  on  my 

bank. 
The    willow's    root — a    monster    foot — the    grasses 

growing  rank; 
"A  purpose  God  has  given  me,  to  serve  his  children 

here, 
With  all  my  strength  and  days  of  length  I  live  to 

bring  them  cheer. 
"A  bloody  battle  over  there  it  was  my  lot  to  see. 
And  oh,  the  grief  that  found  relief  and  soothed  itself 

in  me! 
"And  many  a  weary  traveler  has  kneeled  upon  my 

bank, 
With  clothing  torn  and  features  worn  he  thanked 

his  God,  and  drank. 
"So    onward,   ever    onward,    with    missions,    toward 

the  sea, 
A  life  begun  on  earth  to  run  for  all  that  living  be!" 


42 


"PARADISE  REGAINED" 

GEE  whiz!     I'm  in  the  country,  do  you  know 
There  ain't  no  place  on  earth  that  cheers  me  so! 
The  city's  all  right  for  them  greedy  folk 
That  can't  see  nothin'  in  this  life  but  money, 
An'  sit  in  offices  an'  scheme  and  smoke; 
But  jest  give  me  the  fields,  all  green  an'  sunny. 

I  don't  care  if  my  gal's  along  or  not — 
The  honey's  sweet  enough  for  me  out  here; 
Yet  I'll  admit  her  presence'd  be  a  lot 
Of  satisfaction  if  she'd  stay  right  near. 

Gee!    Ain't  it  fine?    The  air's  all  cedar  laden, 
An'  there's  a  blue-bird  meltin'  into  sky; 
That  mockin'  bird  kin  fool  ye  like  a  maiden, 
Oh!  in  a  world  like  this  who  wants  to  die? 

Them  little  flowers  creepin'  in  the  grasses 
Weren't  made  fer  us  big  folk  to  tread  upon. 
They  live  and  breathe  as  do  we  human  masses, — 
Them  city  folks  don't  know  what  God  has  done! 

Hist!  look  at  that!    A  little  squirrel  a-friskin', 
An'  watchin'  me  with  two  bright  little  eyes; 
Mebby  he's  sayin'  as  about  he's  whiskin', 
"What  great  big  thing  has  come  to  Parrydise?" 


43 


A  SONG  OF  TWENTY-ONE 

I'M  twenty-one  today,  boys,  I'm  twenty-one  today, 
And,  Oh!  the  happy  schemes,  boys,  that  in  my  fancy 

play. 
I've  got  the  world  before  me,  boys,  and  though  they 

say  it's  hard, 
A   buoyant   spirit's   born   today   no   fate    shall   e'er 

retard ! 
I  dreamed  when  ten  that  love  was  sweet,  but,  oh! 

as  it  is  now, 
You'll  know,  my  boys,  v/hen  twenty-one — I  cannot  tell 

you  how. 
A  letter  came  from  home  today  that  I  shall  always 

keep, 
'Twas  penned  by  her  who  loves  me  true,  who  penned 

it  but  to  weep; 
And  how  that  Ic^tter  breathes  her  love,  how  Mother 

prays  for  me, 
That  how  she  guided  me  in  youth  I  still  might  guided 

be. 

Then  fill  for  me  the  glasses,  boys,  I'll  do  for  you  the 
same. 

When  you  have  reached  your  twenty-first,  the  proud- 
est hour,  I  claim; 

And  lift  to  me  the  glasses,  boys,  and  touch  them 

while  we  sing, 
In   ecstasy,   the  joy  he   feels,  who's   twenty-one   in 

spring! 


44 

MADRIGAL 

THY  sighs  are  breaths  of  roses  sweet, 
Thy  voice,  the  music  of  the  lyre, 
And  could  my  lips  thine  own  but  meet 
But  once,  'twould  quiet  my  desire. 

The  soft  love-light  within  those  eyes, 
Whose  darkness  matches  raven  gloss, 
Is  such,  it  seems,  as  angels  prize. 
But  mine's  the  gain,  and  theirs  the  loss. 

The  magic  waves  that  o'er  me  leap. 
From  pulse  to  pulse,  from  vein  to  vein. 
When  thy  soft  hand  in  mine  I  keep, 
Is  as  the  buds'  when  summer  rain 

With  gentle  warmth  all  lightly  falls, 
And  to  their  fainting  efforts  yields 
The  nourishment  their  beauty  calls 
If  they  must  bloom  in  bower  or  fields; 

But  when  the  lights  are  burning  low, 
Thy  phanto  m  form  before  me  floats. 
And  love's  soft  passions  gently  glow, 
While  in  mine  ears  are  sweetest  notes. 

And  there  my  rev'rie  fades  and  dies, 
The  phantom  glides  away,  and  night 
Steals  o'er  me,  and  my  drooping  eyes 
Await  Aurora's  car  of  light! 


45 


CONSTANCY 

WHEN  first  I  kissed  that  lovely  face 
It  seemed  that  Nature  and  her  race 
Of  fairy  artists  vied  their  skill 
To  make  the  fairest,  and  to  fill 
That  single  mould  with  all  the  good 
That  makes  the  charm  of  maidenhood. 

Again  I  kiss  that  face  today — 
Some  forty  years  have  passed  away, 
The  brows  are  knit,  the  locks  are  gray, 
And  round  about  it  wrinkles  stray: 
The  heart  has  lost  its  childish  play, 
The  bloom  of  youth  forever  gone. 
But  still,  unchanged,  my  love  lives  on. 


46 


THE  BALLAD  OF  JENNIE  BROWN 

THIS  rhyme  of  mine  is  a  rhyme  of  the  time 
When  our  fathers  were  boys  like  we, 
And  they  wore  their  clothes — as  I  suppose — 
With  as  much  propriety. 

There  lived  in  a  town  a  young  Miss  Brown, 

A  lady  of  style  was  she, 

And  the  tale  I  tell,  it  once  befell 

This  lady  of  quality. 

There  wasn't  a  man  (so  the  story  ran) 
In  the  old  New  England  town. 
Who  was  not  aware  of  the  lady  fair 
That  was  christened  Jennie  Brown. 

Her  hair  was  dark,  and  a  heavenly  spark 
Would  flash  from  her  lovely  eyes; 
Her  figure  good,  and  as  fine  her  blood 
As  nature  could  ever  devise. 

And  many  a  dupe  with  awkward  stoop 
Had  humbled  himself  to  her; 
And  now  and  then  the  sensible  men 
She  used  her  arts  to  lure. 

Oh,  as  many  loves  as  awkward  moves 
An  elephant  makes  in  a  day. 
Had  young  Miss  Brown  in  the  cozy  town 
Built  o'er  New  England's  way. 


47 

But  she  threw  them  off  with  a  laugh  and  a  cough, 
And  prepared  the  next  to  catch; 
And  she  thought  it  fun,  when  the  day  was  done, 
This  jilting  her  art  would  hatch. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  the  men  that  way 
Had  let  her  alone  for  good, 
And  the  days  she  sighed,  and  the  nights  she  cried. 
In  her  lonely  maidenhood. 

The  days  went  on,  and  her  lovers  were  gone — 
Were  married  many  a  year. 
And  she  mourned  her  fate  and  her  single  state 
With  many  a  salty  tear. 

Her  beauty  of  youth  (I  am  telling  the  truth) 
Was  slowly  fading  away; 
And  she  worried  deep,  and  she  lost  her  sleep 
Until  her  locks  were  gray. 

Her  beauty  was  gone,  and  her  cheeks  were  wan, 
And  her  heart  was  sad,  I'm  sure. 
When  a  happy  scheme,  like  a  sudden  gleam 
Aroused  this  maiden  demure. 

She'd  buy  some  locks  from  the  milliner's  stocks. 
Of  a   lovely,  golden  hue. 
And  she'd  paint  her  cheeks,  like  other  freaks 
Who  have  had  the  art  to  rue. 

She  kept  the  locks  in  an  ebony  box. 
With  jeweled  hinges  bright, 
And  every  morn  the  locks  were  worn. 
And  she  put  them  back  at  night. 


48 

And  she  was  vain  and  young  again — 
At  least  she  reasoned  so, 
And  she  went  to  a  town,  did  Jennie  Brown, 
And  captured  a  little  beau. 

Oh,  a  little  beau  named  So-and-So, 
So  nice,  so  sweet,  so  small; 
But  he  didn't  know  the  dreadful  woe 
Into  which  he  soon  would  fall. 

She  took  him  away,  and  her  heart  was  gay. 

And  his  the  same,  I  fear; 

But  oh!  and  alas!  it  came  to  pass 

That  there  was  many  a  tear ! 

For  the  little  boy,  so  nice  and  coy. 
He  wasn't  a  man  at  all; 
And  the  little  girl  with  the  golden  curl, 
She  wasn't  a  girl  at  all! 

And  now  ye  maids  with  lace  and  braids, 
And  beauty  that  cannot  last. 
Take  while  you  can  an  honest  man, 
Nor  turn  them  off  so  fast. 


49 


FIRES  OF  BRUSHWOOD 

BRIGHT  fires  of  brushwood  burning  far  away, 
Lighting  the  horizon  as  the  sky  is  turning  gray ; 

Strong  arms  of  Progress  clearing  for  the  corn, 
Toiling  late  into  the  night  but  up  with  early  morn; 

Strong  arms  of  Progress  forging  out  the  West, 
Making  pleasant  lands  for  those  that  follow  when 
they  rest. 

Here  I  sit  adreaming,  adreaming  of  a  race, 
Jew,   Gentile,  and   Christian  blood  mingled  by  His 
grace. 

Living  in  the  peace  of  God  in  this  most  blessed  land; 
Bright  fires  of  brushwood,  ye  picture  such  a  band! 

Bright  fires  of  brushwood  burning  far  away. 
True,  come  true,  0  happy  dream  that  drives  my  cares 
away! 

Fires  of  brushwood  burning  that  lands  may  yet  be 

free. 
Fires  of  war  fierce  raging  for  lasting  Peace  to  be ! 


50 


UNCOLN  1 

0,  thou,  the  child  of  Poverty  and  Care, 
If  I  would  make  a  parallel  of  thee, 
I  feel  I  am  not  wrong  if  I  compare 
To  Him  thou  followed — Man  of  Galilee : 
In  lowliness  was  thy  nativity, 
Thou  noble  offspring  of  the  virgin  soil, 
Thou  child  of  meekness  and  humility. 
And  noblest  exponent  of  manly  toil. 
The  care-worn  face  my  cheeks  the  teardrops  soil 
When  I  behold,  for  thine  was  fire  that  burned 
To  light  the  world.    Thy  will,  what  foe  could  foil? 
Thy  purpose,  e'en  by  armies  ne'er  was  turned 
From  its  wise  course; — thy  fall,  a  nation's  groan; 
Thy  task  for  man  performed,  Gk)d  took  thee  for  His 
own. 


51 


ENLIST 

ENLIST  is  printed  facing  "Peace."  The  verse  in  italics  is 
self-explanatory,  and  does,  I  believe,  express  the  soul  of  every 
true  American,  assuredly  so  that  of  our  great  President ; 
and  if  Peace  is  to  be  established  only  by  war,  then  let  us  have 
war. 

A  blast  of  stirring  music  comes, 

The  shrieking  fife,  the  martial  drums,* 

And  clarion  call  to  arms. 
Where  is  the  spirit  of  your  sires? 
Where  are  the  hearts  such  music  fires. 

The  dying  bosom  warms? 

You  see  your  brothers'  sacrifice. 

Must  you  be  called  for  more  than  twice? 

And  you  my  countrymen! 
Our  ships  are  sunk,  our  blood  is  shed 
By  ruthless  hands  with  murder  red, 

And  Freedom  calls  again! 

She  bids  each  to  her  colors  fly. 
With  heart  of  oak  and  flashing  eye. 

And  spirit  of  the  free! 
For  never  was  her  peril  so  great — 
'Tis  of  the  world,  not  of  the  state — 

For  God  her  victory ! 

It  is  not  ours  to  seek  a  fights 

But  when  the  cause  demands  our  might 

Our  battle  hosts  arise! 
They  bear  the  flag  in  triumph  on, 
The  flag  of  Grant  and  Washington, 

The  glory  of  the  skies! 


52 

Deep  from  the  depths  I  hear  a  cry, 
"Avenge!  avenge!  To  battle  fly!" 

Our  answer  rings,  "We  come!" 
I  hear  the  battle  shout  afar, 
I  feel  the  cannon's  awful  jar. 
Up,  up,  my  boys!  to  arms,  to  war! 

For  freedom  and  for  home! 


♦Siggested    by    the    well    known    painting    by    Archibald 
Willard,  "Spirit  of  '76." 


PEACE 

SING  not  the  praise  of  olden  days. 
Their  songs  are  sung  for  evermore; 
But  sing  the  ways  of  better  days. 
Of  peace  and  rest  from  shore  to  shore: 
A  single  day  of  heaven  is  worth 
A  thousand  years  of  strife  on  earth. 

When  comes  the  jar  of  crowns  at  war. 
When  heroes  fall  and  widows  weep, 
When  shell  and  sword  and  savage  horde 
Are  spreading  woe  on  field  and  deep, 
*Tis  then,  0  God,  in  fulness  comes 
The  meaning  of  the  martial  drums. 

My  native  land!  in  glory  stand, 
But  not  the  glory  of  armed  ranks. 
But  of  the  fields  and  all  that  yields 
Us  peace  and  wealth,  and  render  thanks 
To  Him  in  whom  such  blessings  rise 
As  should  make  earth  a  paradise. 


53 

Our  pride  of  power,  the  present  hour, 
Still,  still  our  greatest  danger  is; 
O'er  vision's  sea  appears  to  me 
A  cloud — but  heaven  save  from  this! 
No  heart  and  soul  to  heaven  turned 
Was  ever  by  the  Father  spurned. 

Then  let  us  climb  the  heights  sublime, 

Let  "Peace"  in  golden  letters  glow 

Before  our  eyes  to  imparadise 

This  world  perplexed  with  war  and  woe: 

A  single  day  of  heaven  is  worth 

A  thousand  years  of  strife  on  earth. 


lllllillllllilllllillllllll!llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllliilllllilllilllllll!!lllllilH 


3^  ^"^6  ^ 

/c.-t-..c^ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


